


A Little Messed Up But We're All Alright

by Radiday



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 11:03:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiday/pseuds/Radiday
Summary: He's seen Fred like this before, when life sucks him dry. He's not going to let him go through it alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Kenny Chesney's "American Kids."

“Freddy! Hey Freddy!” FP calls as he climbs up the stairs to the Andrews’ master bedroom.

“FP? What are you doing here?” Fred’s hair is damp, and he’s got a towel wrapped around his waist.

“What, Serpents aren’t welcome here anymore?” FP retorts, half kidding.

“Last I heard you weren’t a Serpent anymore.” Fred’s quick, a thin smile on his face as he rubs a towel across his hair.

FP ignores it. “Archie said you were up here. Said you weren’t feeling well. I just came to check up on you.”

“I’m fine,” Fred says, reaching into the drawer for a shirt. “Everybody still down there?” He nods to the door, desperate for this night to end. For Sierra and Kevin and Veronica and her newly elected mayor and everyone else to go home, to leave him alone.

FP nods, eyeing the large bruise across Fred’s stomach. Jughead had told him about Tall Boy breaking into the Andrews house and taking another shot at Fred. He makes a mental note to ask about it later. “I think they’re headed out soon,” he pauses, “I’m sorry about… all this mayor stuff. You deserved to win.” He stands there with his hands shoved into the pockets of the leather jacket he technically shouldn’t be wearing anymore.

“Yeah, well. The Lodges have too many people in their back pocket. I never really had a chance,” he shrugs.

FP enters the room, running his finger down a framed photo of Fred and Archie. “I know you’ve wanted this for a long time, Freddy.”

Fred doesn’t look at him. “I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life, FP,” he says as he puts on his shirt.

“I know, F,” FP nods, shoving his hands into his leather jacket. “Listen, why don’t we go down to the river? Look up at the stars? Like the good old days?”

“I’m tired, FP.”

“I know, Fred.”

“I just want to go to sleep.” He slips back into the bathroom and returns with blue and white striped pajama pants.

“Don’t do this, Freddy. You know how hard it is to get out of this funk once you’re in it.”

“Oh,” Fred breathes. “I’m in it.”

“Come on, we’ll go for a drive. The boys can come with us if they want-“

“I don’t want to go anywhere, FP!” It comes out harsher than he intended. “I just want to go to bed.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“What?” Fred throws up his arms. “You can’t let me sleep? It’s sort of a requirement for survival.”

They hear the phone ring, but Fred ignores it. “Dad!” Archie’s voice interrupts them from downstairs. “It’s mom!”

“Tell her I went to bed!” he yells back.

“She says she can hear you!”

Fred lets out a frustrated sigh and tosses his towel across at the wall.

“I’ll take it,” FP mumbles, patting Fred’s shoulder. “I got it up here, Archie!” FP yells down.

FP picks up the phone on the dresser. “Hi, Mary,” he sighs.

“Is he okay?” Typical Mary. Short, sweet, to the point.

“Jury’s still out,” he says, moving the phone from one ear to the other as he turns to look at Fred.

It’s clear to him that Fred’s lost in his own little world, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the shag carpet in front of him.

FP takes the opportunity to move out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “I don’t know, Mare…”. The nickname rolls off his tongue before he can stop himself.

Mary senses his hesitation. “Just- just take care of him, alright? Tell him to call me when he feels up to it.”

She hangs up quickly, and FP reenters the room. Fred hasn’t moved. FP can see the tears welling in his eyes, only one blink away from falling.

“Hey buddy,” FP says, his voice low and gentle. “You’re right, I’m sorry. You should get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Okay,” Fred chokes, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t move.

FP places a hand on his friend’s shoulder and guides him to the side of the bed. “Go to sleep, Freddy. I’ll be here.”

FP sits on the edge of the bed until Fred’s breathing is deep and even, a sure sign he’s fallen asleep.

When he goes downstairs, the party that almost was has cleared out. Archie and Veronica remain, quietly cleaning up the kitchen.

“Is Mr. Andrews okay?” Veronica asks, looking up from sweeping the kitchen floor.

FP sighs. “Yeah, just been a long day. He just needs some sleep. How are you guys doing?”

“We’re alright. Just about all cleaned up,” Veronica remarks.

“You’re sure he’s okay?” Archie’s voice strains with worry, his eyes pleading with FP.

“He’ll be just fine,” FP affirms. He doesn’t know if this counts as lying, because the truth is, he’s not really sure. The last time Fred got like this…

He shakes his head. “I’m going to stay the night, if that’s okay,” he adds.

“Yeah,” Archie breathes. “Yeah, okay.”

FP steps further into the kitchen hesitantly. “You kids go… do whatever it is you do,” he says with a small laugh. “I’ll finish up here.”

“You sure?” Archie offers.

FP nods. “I know where everything goes.” He takes the broom from Veronica, setting it against the kitchen counter.

Veronica nods. “Walk me out, Archie?”

They leave hand in hand, and FP can’t help but smile at the young love. His thoughts briefly flit over to his son and Betty, young and in love, and yet, the weight of the world on their shoulders.

He hears the front door shut and its not long before he sees Archie looking in the archway.

“You sure you don’t need any help? I can-,” he starts.

“Don’t worry about it. You go on up to bed. It’s been a long day for all of you,” FP says has he dries a dish.

Archie turns to leave before he hesitates and turns back around. “My dad,” he starts. “He’s okay, right? Like… really?”

FP sighs and turns the sink off. “He will be. Go to bed, Archie.”

Archie sighs, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. FP doesn’t blame him. When it comes to comfort, he’s no Fred. He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s finished the dishes and has moved on to clearing up the dining room table. The cake sits untouched, the blue letters that reads, ‘Congratulations, Fred’ staring back at him, taunting him.

He picks the cake up whole and tosses it in the trash.

He’s settles on the couch after finding the spare blankets and pillows in the hall closet like they’ve always been. He tries not to think of the countless nights he’d spent at the Andrews home after a fight with Gladys. Sometimes with Jughead, sometimes without.

He ditches the jacket, tossing it on the chair next to him before leaning his head back so it touches the wall being the couch.

He stays there until he hears the floorboard creak.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” Fred says as he pads into the room, nodding to the dining room.

“I didn’t really. The kids did most of it. I thought you were going to sleep.”

Fred hums in response. “So did I.” He sits next to FP, a groan escaping his lips.

“You alright?” FP asks, nodding to Fred’s abdomen.

It’s no secret that Fred still feels the effects of the shooting. The first shooting. He still has trouble bending over, and sometimes his leg catches if he stands up too fast. He tries to ignore it.

But this time, it’s the second shooting that he’s feeling. He’d done his best to hide the pain from Archie, but he’s learned that a bulletproof vest may stop you from getting shot, but it doesn’t stop you from getting hurt.

Fred gives a hesitant laugh and nods.

FP raises his eyebrows, letting Fred know that he doesn’t believe him. He reaches over and takes a hold of Fred’s shirt, pulling it up to his chest.

“Jesus, Freddy,” he murmurs. “Have you put ice on this?”

Fred shakes his head. “It’s too late now, it won’t do any good. Just gotta ride it out.”

“You want something for the pain?” FP asks, moving to go to the medicine cabinet.

Fred puts out an arm to stop him. “I’m okay.”

FP looks at him for a moment before sitting back down. “Are you?” he asks, resting his head on his propped up arms.

Fred’s silent long enough for FP to know the answer. He says it anyways. “No.” It comes out quiet and broken, so he says it again. “No.”

Fred sinks his head into his hands and breaths deeply. “What can I do?” FP offers helplessly.

The last time this had happened, Fred had sunk so deep FP almost couldn’t get him back.

He’d gotten the call at three in the morning, waking him from his own drunken slumber.

‘What?!’ he’d barked into the phone without checking the caller I.D.

‘FP?’ Fred’s voice was small on the other line, scared. ‘FP, I need your help. I fucked up.’

FP dressed hurriedly as Fred explained what happened. He’d had too much to drink, but Archie had an early morning football practice, so he had to get home, so he’d gotten into his truck and started driving. ‘I didn’t think I was going that fast, FP. I- I thought I could get home okay.’ The deputy who’d pulled him over could smell the alcohol on his breath before Fred had even managed to roll the window all the way down. He was in the back of a cruiser before he could realize it.

‘Okay,’ FP sighed. ‘It’s okay. Just hang in there. I’ll be there soon.’

The call ended as quickly as it came, and before he realized FP was parking his bike in front of the Riverdale Police Department.

He’d parked the bike horizontally, in two spots, just to spite them. He’d end up leaving it there that night, driving Fred’s truck home. Freddy hated the bike. He always did.

The ride to Fred’s house was silent. They’d made their way inside quietly, so as not to wake Archie.

They’d sat on the couch much like they are now.

‘Don’t do this, Freddy,’ he had said. ‘Don’t be like me.’

Fred had looked at him, eyes red from the alcohol, but he didn’t say anything.

‘You’re a good dad,’ FP continued. ‘Don’t go down a path you can’t come back from.’

Fred’s voice brings him back to the present. “I don’t know, FP. I just feel so…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

FP leans back on the couch and wrings his hands together. “So what, Freddy?” he says gently.

Fred shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says uselessly. “Empty, I guess.”

“Maybe you just need a break. You know, from all of this,” FP says, gesturing loosely around the room. “Maybe you need to get away for a while.”

Fred barks out a bitter laugh. “And what?” he bites. “Just leave Archie here? What, with Hiram Lodge still in the game? No,” he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

FP sighs and leans forward, mimicking Fred’s posture. “You gotta…” he shrugs. “You’ve gotta do something for yourself, buddy. Otherwise you’ll suck yourself dry again.”

Again.

They both know this has happened before.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” Fred runs his hands down his face. “This thing,” he forces out, “this running for mayor, it was my one shot at making this place safe for Archie.”

“You’ve made this place safe for your boy and mine.”

“I tried,” Fred mumbles.

“You succeeded. Even if you don’t see it,” FP pats Fred’s shoulder. “Go to sleep, Freddy. I’ll do the cooking in the morning. Oh, and you’ve gotta remember to call Mary. You know, before she shows up here.”

That makes Fred laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in what feels like ages. He nods his thanks and makes his way up the stairs, stopping briefly to crack Archie’s door open and watch him sleep like he used to when Archie was a baby. His breathing is deep and even and Fred feels satisfied.

Vegas is waiting for him at his bedroom door, eager to get into the bed. “Good boy,” Fred mutters as he climbs into bed, Vegas jumping over him to his side. “I think we’ll be alright,” he says as Vegas rests his head on Fred’s legs. “I really do.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fred wakes up the next morning to the smell of bacon. He pads down the stairs barefoot, surprised to see the sun already shining through the windows. 

He yawns as he enters the kitchen, catching the attention of Archie and Jughead. They’re both seated at the island, plates full in front of them. 

“Morning, dad,” Archie says in between bites. 

“Hey, Mr. A,” adds Jughead. 

“Morning,” Fred yawns, looking at the clock on the stove. It reads 9:05. 

“It’s 9 o’clock already? Why didn’t anybody wake me?”

“You needed your sleep,” FP says, finally turning around from the stove to face Fred. He slides him a plate full of a traditional Fred breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast, sausage. 

Fred raises his eyebrows. “You made this?”

FP laughs and gestures at the boys. “What, you think these two knuckleheads could put this together?”

“Hey now,” Jughead argues, taking a break from shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. “I can cook.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” Archie laughs, picking up a strip of bacon with his fingers and putting it in his mouth. 

Fred breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, accepting the cup of coffee FP hands him. “I had an alarm set,” he says in between sips. 

“I turned it off,” FP returns, looking at his from the side of his eyes as he puts a dirty pan in the sink. 

“You turned off my alarm?”

“I’m going to pretend that isn’t creepy,” Jughead quips. 

FP ignores him. “You needed the sleep,” FP repeats simply. “Food alright, boys?”

Archie and Jughead nodded, scarfing their last bites down. “Hey dad,” Archie says has he pats Fred on the shoulder, “Jug and I’ll be upstairs. We’ve got a history project to work on.”

Fred nods and laughs when FP says, “I didn’t realize that the teenagers in this town actually did schoolwork.” 

The boys leave their fathers behind, Fred sinking into the empty stool Archie left, FP on the other side, continuing to watch the bacon sizzle. 

“How ya feeling, buddy?” FP asks, back still turned to Fred. 

Fred runs his finger around the rim of his mug. “Okay.” 

FP turns sharply at the word, raising his eyebrows at Fred. 

Fred sighs. “Better than I did yesterday.” 

FP turns back around, gripping the bacon in tongs before spinning on his heels and dropping them on Fred’s plate. 

“That’s enough,” Fred says. 

FP hums. “You’re too skinny.”

“My apologies, Mom.” 

They lock eyes, the look lingering. “Don’t call me mom,” FP says finally, raising the tongs to Fred’s face. 

Fred laughs, leaning back so his arms stretch out and his fingertips touch the island. 

“Are we going to talk about last night?” FP asks, tossing the tongs in the sink. He returns to the island, so that they’re facing each other, FP leaning forward on his forearms, hands clasped. 

“What about last night?” Fred plays dumb, eyes suddenly fixed on a scratch on the corner of the island. 

FP stands up completely. “I’d say you were pretty close to another “fuck up” last night.”

“It’s one DUI, FP,” Fred says, leaning in closer. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“No,” FP says, before raising a finger, shaking it. “But you have been depressed.”

The word hangs in between them, heavy enough to make the ceiling collapse. Fred doesn’t talk about that word, doesn’t acknowledge it. Not now. Not anymore. 

Fred swallows his shame. “It was never actually like that,” he emphasizes. 

“Really?” FP smacks his open hands on the table. Not out of anger, but just to make a point. “You, shouting from the rooftop of the hospital that you wanted to die doesn’t make someone depressed?”

Fred frowns. “Lower your voice!” his hisses. “My brother had just died, what did you want from me?!” he continues, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m not depressed, FP. I never have been.” 

FP hums in disbelief. “Look, I know I shouldn’t be one to talk-,” he starts. 

Fred cuts him off with a snarky half smile. “No, you really shouldn’t.”

FP ignores him. “Freddy, you drunk yourself into a stupor after Oscar died. You didn’t talk to Mary or Archie for days.”

“Archie was two,” Fred bites back. “He doesn’t remember.” ‘He can’t,’ Fred thinks. ‘Dear God, please don’t let him remember.’

“Of course, Archie doesn’t remember. This isn’t about Archie. Or Mary. Or me. This is about you.” FP jabs a finger at Fred’s chest. He softens his voice before continuing. “Freddy, you cannot bottle things up inside anymore. You just can’t. The first time, you-,” he hesitates, “you saying you want to die, and the getting arrested for driving drunk…”

Fred cuts him off sharply, his voice loud and heated despite his previous warning for quiet. “It was a DUI, FP! One! It doesn’t make me a sinner!”

The word escapes before he has time to think. Sinner. FP’s eyes snap up as Fred’s drift away, trying to hold eye contact with the kitchen sink. 

FP mellows, moving around the island and taking the seat next to Fred, where his son sat minutes ago. “You’re not a sinner, Freddy. You didn’t deserve to get shot.”

Fred’s still winning the staring contest with the sink. “That’s not what I meant.”

FP pats his friend’s leg. “You the one that told me what that therapist you saw once said… that what slips out in moments like this is what we’ve been trying to hide from.” 

Fred feels his chest tighten. It’s getting harder to breath. He feels very briefly like he’s hearing through a tunnel. “What if I am a sinner?” The words slip out, just like FP’s says. It’s the last thing he wants to talk about. 

“You’re not.” FP’s firm. No explanation necessary. If Freddy Andrews is a sinner, then everybody in this godforsaken town is most definitely headed to Hell. 

“I cheated on Mary,” he says quietly, moving the staring contest from the sink to his hands. 

“You were separated. And Hiram was in prison. That’s not cheating.”

“It is,” Fred says wetly. He’s not going to cry here, he refuses. 

“It’s not.” FP’s not going to let Fred win this one. “You didn’t deserve to get shot.”

Fred shakes his head. “We don’t need to do this,” he swallows thickly. “I’m fine.”

FP ignores him, instead tilting his head to meet Fred’s eyes. “You did not deserve to get shot.”

Fred looks away, so FP shifts, forcing eye contact again. “You did not deserve to get shot.” 

Fred doesn’t move this time, but looks down, so he keeps going. “You did not deserve to lose this election. You did not deserve Mary leaving you, or what that asshat Hiram Lodge is doing to your family. To your town.”

Finally, Fred’s eyes snap up. “You deserve more than that. You’re allowed to be upset about losing. You’re allowed to be angry. At me, at Hermione, at Hiram, hell, at Veronica and Archie. You’re allowed to be angry at this town for letting you down. You’re allowed to do that,” his finger’s back jabbing at Fred’s chest. 

FP grips Fred’s shoulders, shaking them slightly with every word he says next. “You’re allowed to need help.” 

For good measure, he adds, “You’re allowed to get help.” 

Fred feels his head moving. He can’t tell if he’s nodding or shaking it.

FP tilts his head again to meet Fred’s eyes. “You don’t believe me?” he sighs. 

Fred sets his jaw for a moment. He feels overwhelmed and small, shrinking with every passing moment. Somehow, FP’s gotten all his demons lined up right in front of him. He struggles to speak. “No, I, yeah. You’re right. I am angry,” he scrubs his face, willing his brain to find the words. “I just can’t sort out why. Or at what.” His voice is quiet again, raspy and raw. 

FP leans in close, making sure his voice comes out gentle. “That’s what the help is for.” 

“I don’t…” Fred trails off. 

“Look,” FP picks up, rising from the stool. “I know therapy isn’t your thing. I know you’ve tried it. But, goddamn it Freddy, I can’t stand to see you miserable. Talk to me! Talk to Mary! Hell, talk to Alice! You’ve got to let this out,” he breathes. “You’ve got to talk to someone.” 

Fred pinches the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes and resting his head on his hands. “I know,” he pauses, looking up at FP with a bitter smile. “You’d want to hear all my problems?”

FP barks out a laugh. “After all the shit you’ve done for me and my boy? I’d do just about anything for you, Freddy. You deserve that,” he emphasizes. “Besides, what was that stupid thing you’d say to all of us every day in high school?”

“I’m just around the corner if you need me,” they say together. 

“Yeah, Freddy,” he sits down again, patting Fred on the shoulder. “I’m just around the corner if you need me.”


End file.
